“Oh, we liked having you. We generally have lots of people for Christmas.”
“Well, one couldn’t have a more Christmassy house. It always seems to me like the house one suddenly comes upon in a wood in a fairy story. One expects the door to be opened by a badger in livery.”
Again that bastard Fancy! The same sort of thing had occurred to her herself—when she was a child; but the imagination of a man ought to be different from the fancy of a child.
“It’s the sort of house one can imagine a Barrie play happening in, don’t you think? Did you see Dear Brutus?”
“Yes; I did.”
“I didn’t like the girl much—what was her name? Margaret, wasn’t it? I’m sure her papa starved her—I longed to take her and give her a good square meal.” Pause.
She wondered what it would feel like to be the sort of young woman who could interest and allure him. And what were the qualities needed? It could not be brains, for she had plenty of brains; nor looks, for she was good-looking. But nothing about her stirred him; she knew it.
“Of course, it’s an extraordinary hard life, an actress’s,” he went on, “it’s a wonder that they keep their looks as they do. It’s a shame! Women seem handicapped all along the line,” and he looked at her expectantly, as if sure of her approval at last, “It can’t be much fun being a woman, unless one were a very beautiful one ... or a very clever one, of course,” he added hastily.
Well, the cat was out of the bag: she was plain as well as undesirable.
Suddenly, Dionysus and his rout vanished from Thebes; temples and market-place sprang up again, and she remembered joyfully that a fresh packet of books ought to arrive to-morrow from the London Library.